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If they had a kid meme

send me a pair name and I’ll tell you what I think it would be like if they had a child.

Name:

Gender:

General Appearance:

Personality:

Special Talents:

Who they like better:

Who they take after more:

Personal Head canon:

Face Claim:

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Harry Potter is authorless.

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summer is the season of sundress sex and i think it's unacceptable that i haven't been fucked once yet in a pretty dress

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She is watching you with her big doe eyes.

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as expected, that trailer made me unwell.

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𝐒𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐃𝐓𝐑𝐀𝐂𝐊, a   muse   playlist   study.     list  5   songs   that   you  associate   with   your  muse.   [   bonus:   include   lyrics   if   you'd like.   ]

anxiété — pomme . Je suis celle qu'on ne voit pas. Je suis celle qu'on n'entend pas. Je suis cachée au bord des larmes. Je suis la reine des drames.

petals — bibio . Don't force a smile that'll make you resent the city. Play it soft to forgive. Keep the frown that'll make you squint in the summer. Play it slow and forget.

ptolemaea — ethel cain . You poor thing. Sweet, mourning lamb. There's nothing you can do. It's already been done.

breathe me — jasmine thompson . Ouch, I have lost myself again. Lost, myself and I am nowhere to be found. Yeah I think that I might break. Lost myself again and, I feel unsafe.

sirens — fleurie . Out in the darkness, I saw an angel. Held back the flood until the sky fell. I see the future covered in roses. Waves of gold as the door closes. I can hear the sirens.

tagged by: don't remember. tagging: everyone!

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            ❝   A  reward  hardly  seems  necessary  for  sharing  a  drink.  Do  you...  often  bribe  others  to  share  your  company?  Should  I  be  concerned  you  poisoned  the  wine?   ❞

❛ darling you wound me ━ don't think of it as generosity , more , that good company should be rewarded . . or something like that . ❜

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Corinne doesn't need any further convincing to slip into the old shop. It is more well-lit than she first realised from the outside, and a welcome reprieve from the darkened, stormy skies. She takes the offered towel with gratitude, dabbing at her face and drying her hair as best she can. Her clothes are a bit of a different matter; however, she does her best to pat away the excess water.

It occurs to her she hasn't spoken since her hasty 'thank you' as she came in, so with the towel draped around her shoulders, she steps further in. His warm welcome certainly makes her feel less like a nuisance, at any rate. She can't help but notice the way he speaks. It isn't like the tourists that flit through the city, their heavy accents either harsh and crass or quiet and vowel-heavy. Guttural. Rather, it's his patterns of speech she's struck by. Something fey-like and ancient; reminiscent of fairytales she'd read as a child. It's a little odd in this modern city with its avant-garde architecture mixed between the antique and the historical, but it has its charm, too. She can't help but smile because of it.

❝ It... It did certainly come without warning, ❞ she concedes at last.

Corinne only spares a final glance through the window at the downpour before deciding it was her best bet to stay put until the grey veil lifted. Then her gaze scans the shop's interior with more appraisal. There is something fresh and equally wild about it, something she can't quite put her finger on. The last time she'd come down this way, the psychic shop hadn't been here. Not that she's particularly interested in the subject itself, but it hadn't escaped her notice how clean and well-kept the place was. Not like older shops with their worn wood and haphazard layouts.

❝ Is this place new? I've never been here before. ❞

continued from x ;

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The torrent crashes and weaves like the angry belch of a stormy sea, yet, is Roland delighted, seeing the fleeing ides of human beings laughing and cavorting and scattering so quickly to their concepts of shelter and dry places.

Is naught Roland so spoiled with his own Dry Place, his workload borne to the stack of tomes in his arms as he places them within their dignified shelves behind the front counter; another shipment, fresh from the libraries and the commonplace Printing Press for his weekly pay at this quaint little Shoppe, borne nearly of a month, now.

A lithe wisp of a girl comes to the front window, drowned, pretty, reeking of desolation from the downpour of that soon-to-be-chilly rain, and dost Roland grab a fresh towel from the breakroom to meet up with her at the bell-tinted door.

He chortles laughter as he makes fluid, performative gestures to hath her come in, bowing low at the waist, his hand splayed. "Please, thou art more than welcome here. Here," and dost he hand her that towel, fluffy and fresh. "How soonish comes that Glory of the new Season!" And he laughs brighter, uncaring for the droplets what scatter upon the floor. He will meander with them soon.

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            ❝   Please,  brag  away!  I  don't  have  much  of  a  green  thumb  myself,  sadly.  If  I  did,  I  would  definitely  have  an  entire  garden  full  of  roses.  Yours  must  be  very  beautiful! Do you have pictures?   ❞

❝ the roses here are beautiful, but i do think the ones i grow are the best, not to brag. every shade of red imaginable. ❞

@rosewiltd ♡'d

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hey so my activity feed hasn't updated the reblog tab since july 22, when i know i've had replies crop up since. if we have something going that you're waiting for a reply on, please like this post or drop the link in my IMs so i can draft it bc im clearly not caught up slkdjgklsdjgsd.

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𝐦𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐱𝐚𝐯𝐢𝐞𝐫 , 𝘫𝘰𝘶𝘳𝘯𝘢𝘭 𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘴 .

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i meant to say five from the private section ; ;

( location-based smut / accepting !! )

            𝐓𝐇𝐄  𝐒𝐖𝐄𝐄𝐓,  𝐒𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐏  𝐀𝐑𝐎𝐌𝐀  𝐎𝐅  𝐂𝐈𝐍𝐍𝐀𝐌𝐎𝐍  𝐑𝐎𝐋𝐋𝐒  𝐖𝐀𝐅𝐓𝐒  𝐓𝐇𝐑𝐎𝐔𝐆𝐇  𝐓𝐇𝐄  𝐒𝐔𝐍-𝐃𝐑𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐇𝐄𝐃  𝐊𝐈𝐓𝐂𝐇𝐄𝐍.  Corinne  is  in  the  middle  of  washing  dishes  when  a  strong  arm  wraps  around  her  middle  and  pulls  her  tight  against  a  broad  chest.  She  releases  a  contented  sigh;  feeling  safe  and  secure  in  that  embrace.  Then  she  wipes  the  suds  from  her  hands  on  a  nearby  towel  before  rewarding  with  a  turn  of  her  body  to  plant  a  kiss  on  the  hard  line  of  his  jaw.

            ❝   Morning,  Gustave,   ❞  she  coos.  The  heat  emanating  from  under  his  shirt  feels  like  fire  under  her  fingertips.  A  balm  against  an  otherwise  cooler  morning.  Her  fingers  find  themselves  slipping  under  the  hem  to  press  against  the  flat  muscle  of  his  stomach  and  he  elicits  something  between  a  low  growl  and  a  hum.  It's  a  small  victory.

            A  kiss  is  pressed  to  her  temple,  his  own  hands  settling  low  on  her  hips.  His  lips  drop  to  her  ear.  ❝  Don't  start  something  you  can't  finish,  chérie.  ❞

            ❝   Oh?  I  always  let  you  finish.   ❞

            Corinne  searches  his  face  for  his  reaction,  feeling  cheeky.  Just  as  she  had  expected,  there's  a  fire  burning  in  his  eyes  that  wasn't  there  a  second  ago.  Rising  on  her  toes,  she  claims  his  lips.  She's  emboldened  by  the  way  he  looks  at  her,  the  way  he  makes  her  feel  desirable  and  worth  wanting.

            Gustave  seems  to  have  no  complaints.  They  dance  back  and  forth  in  a  playful  fight  for  dominance.  He  wins,  of  course.  He  always  does.  There  is  nothing  she  could  not  give  him  willingly,  but  it's  nice  to  try  all  the  same.  By  the  time  they've  trekked  over  to  the  table,  his  shirt  is  undone  and  her  dress  is  rucked  up  around  her  hips.

            She  turns  when  he  guides  her  to,  heartbeat  thudding  all  the  way  in  her  throat  with  anticipation  and  moans  keenly  when  his  first  two  fingers  swipe  along  her  folds.  Massaging.  Testing.  A  finger  slips  inside  with  ease.  She'd  be  embarrassed  by  how  ready  she  is  for  him,  but  can't  seem  to  find  the  will  to  care  at  the  moment.  All  she  can  think  about  is  his  body  bent  over  hers  and  the  startling  loud  clink  of  his  belt  as  he  releases  his  cock.  He  presses  into  her,  at  first  slow.  Careful.  The  mechanical  grip  of  his  left  hand  lifts  her  jaw,  and  she  cranes  her  neck  back  to  meet  him  for  a  messy  kiss  as  he  finally  bottoms  out.  A  strangled  noise  —  a  high-pitched  mewl  —  leaves  her.  She  feels  full.  Complete  in  a  way  she  hasn't  felt  in  years.  And  it's  still  not  enough.  She  needs  him  to  move.

            He  doesn't  appear  to  need  the  prompting.  Her  pleasured  moans  are  all  the  encouragement  he  needs  to  roll  his  hips.  Their  tryst  isn't  hurried.  If  anything,  Gustave  takes  his  time  to  a  point  of  madness  for  Corinne.  She  tries  to  thrust  back  and  he  pulls  away,  shushing  her  with  a  gentle  kiss  to  her  temple  as  he  resumes  his  torturous  rhythm.

❝   Merde!  Gu—Gustave,  please—   ❞

            Corinne  unravels  just  like  that.  Slow,  and  desperate,  and  whining  for  release.  And  when  it  finally  comes—when  she  finally  comes—her  whole  body  trembles  with  it.  Every  nerve-ending  is  electrified.  Her  skin  buzzes  with  the  adrenaline.  Her  knees  threaten  to  buckle,  but  he's  holding  her  around  the  waist,  careful  to  wring  her  of  every  last  drop  of  pleasure.

            As  Corinne  comes  down  from  the  high,  she's  vaguely  aware  of  the  oven's  single  beep  resounding.  A  warning,  there's  only  five  minutes  left  on  the  timer.  She  doesn't  move.  Neither  does  Gustave.  For  a  moment,  she  feels  not  quite  inside  her  own  body,  but  looking  at  it  as  an  observer.  Eventually,  she  shifts,  but  a  gentle  laugh  from  behind  her  tells  her  that  things  aren't  quite  as  over  as  she  thought.

❝   Ah-ah,  didn't  you  say  you  'always  let  me  finish'?   ❞

            Putain.

            She  could  kill  him.  Truly.  She  loves  him  so  much,  but  right  now  she  could  strangle  him  if  her  limbs  didn't  feel  like  jelly  and  he  didn't  have  her  trapped,  quite  literally,  between  his  cock  and  the  table.  As  it  stands,  she  has  no  one  to  blame  but  herself  when  he  thrusts  into  her  once  more,  picking  up  a  faster  and  harder  rhythm  to  chase  his  own  pleasure  to  its  end.

            Breakfast  ends  up  only  a  little  burned.

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[　♞✧   ° #𝐚𝐂𝐎𝐋𝐋𝐀𝐏𝐒𝐀𝐑　]　“ HATRED AND SORROW ARE POWER; THEY ARE YOURS TO CONTROL. ALL YOU HAVE TO DO IS TURN THEM INTO STRENGTH, AND USE THAT STRENGTH TO MOVE FORWARD. ” ╱

Independent, highly selective, mutuals only, 21+, NSFW, and crossover-friendly canon compliant but headcanon influenced manga-based 𝐒𝐞𝐛𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐚𝐧 𝐌𝐢𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐬, the demon butler of Yana Toboso’s 𝐊𝐮𝐫𝐨𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐭𝐬𝐮𝐣𝐢. Est. 2019. As understood, written, and immensely loved by 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐄.

　　　　　　　　𝘣𝘭𝘰𝘨 𝘨𝘳𝘢𝘱𝘩𝘪𝘤𝘴　©　𝘏𝘠𝘙𝘜𝘓𝘌𝘚𝘏𝘖𝘗.

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had to have an emergency tooth extraction so i will be mostly sleeping the rest of the day and trying not to bleed out.

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what themes do you prefer to explore most in your writing?:3

( ask me something about myself or corinne / accepting !! )

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me: thinking i finally outgrew my lisp me listening to myself on audio: ( sylvester the cat vc ) thufferin' thuccotash

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PLS YAP about your most favorite thread and character dynamic youve ever written and deeply explain / analyze why

( ask me something about myself or corinne / accepting !! )

shoutout to @ohfiendangelical and @amaeranthos who were mentioned in my yapping tee hee